


However The Stars May Fall

by zauberer_sirin



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-10
Updated: 2010-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's worse when the others leave them alone. It's getting worse and worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	However The Stars May Fall

It gets worse when the others are not there.

Days like today, _nights_ like tonight. Kagome out somewhere nearby, checking some rumours of spirits in the temple outside the village, just asking some of the townspeople, following a hunch, Inuyasha is with her, of course, and Shippo is... Miroku is not sure where Shippo said he was going but he wished him luck anyway. He's been left behind because he is still recovering from the injuries of their last – useless, gruelling, tiring – scrape with Naraku.

And Sango has stayed behind with him. (She checks the bandages Kagome put on his shoulder - _thank the heavens for Kagome_, Miruko thinks because there are just some days where he can barely stand Sango touching him, Sango standing close)

The night is not cold – Miroku starts a fire on a couple of branches, some leaves, a small fire, more for light than warmth.

They are happy to be outside, the cooling breeze somehow a small mercy. It's getting worse, every time they are alone and they run out of excuses not to touch.

`Does your shoulder hurt?´ Sango asks, sitting by his side in front of the improvised fire. They are _too used_ to sit together like this, so much closer than it's probably a good idea. Shoulders touching all the time, knees sometimes meeting, by accident and not so much.

Miroku sighs.

`It's fine.´

`I mean, with the cold. It might be uncomfortable.´

His robes are pulled down a bit on the side of the wound, hanging under the bandages and letting his neck exposed. Sango, not realizing what she is doing or why it feels so natural, puts two fingers over above the wounded spot, checking if the skin is tender there.

`Sango,´ he calls out to her in a shocked voice.

His whole body shudders at the touch and, at the same time somehow, presses into Sango's hand.

Miroku turns in his seat to look closely at her. Her expression is almost unreadable, except for her mouth, slightly open, and the gleam in her eyes, a mix of fear and exhilaration.

He leans into her and kisses the corner of her mouth, an almost chaste kiss. But then he follows it with another kiss – the palm of his hand against her cheek, his thumb along her jaw pushing her face towards him. She gasps, opening her mouth to let the sound out and that's how Miroku darts his tongue inside and sucks on her lower lip.

She makes a sharp noise at the back of her throat and lets Miroku pull her against him.

They have kissed before two or three times. Brief moments, unrecorded moments, times where the need to touch was stronger than the restraint they had vowed to live by (until all this is done).

They have done this before; his hand in her hair twisting dark strands around his fingers, her hand on his arm, a too-tight grip, fingernails digging into his flesh through his clothes, the prelude of tomorrow's proud bruises on his skin.

This is the first time it's lasted this long – they should not be left alone, Miroku was right, this was clearly unthoughtful of Inuyasha and the others – and so the novelty of each other's mouths turns into something different. They crash against each other and for the first time there's teeth, there's Miroku biting softly at her lower lip and there's Sango pushing her hands to his chest and her knee to the inside of his leg.

There's a moment where the ground seems to give way under them and Sango finds herself on her back and Miroku kneeling over her, trying to hold on to the kiss.

He places a shy hand over her left breast, half-expecting Sango to slap some sense into him. She expects it as well, has her hand ready, twisted into a fist by her head and willing to shove Miroku away. She doesn't. Not yet, she decides. The feeling of his hand's gentle weight – he is not pressing, he is not pushing – over her chest surprises her.

He climbs onto her, pressing his body into hers. Sango has no experience but she doesn't need it to recognize what the hardness pushed up against her leg. She frowns, trying to hide her fleeting discomfort; Miroku catches her glance and realizes, he feels embarrassed for both of them and wants to pull away, but his body is somehow slower on the uptake.

`Sango, I'm s-´

The apology never makes it out, Sango arches her back and kisses him quicker than his shame can make him stop. The truth is, she is embarrassed to, because she feels the same – has felt it for the longest time, every time they are together and every time they accidentally brush when walking, or every time they are riding on Kirara and Sango knows this about herself: she has memorised the feel of Miroku's chest pressed against her back.

She feels the same: heat and dampness tangled up between her legs.

Miroku returns the kiss, fast and pressing hard against her.

He lets out a growl of pain as well as pleasure.

`Your shoulder...´

`It hurts,´ Miroku admits on a thin breath. But he looks at her resolved and adds: `I don't care.´

He dips his head and kisses her, longer than ever this time. He presses her to the ground and suddenly Sango is very aware of the damp earth underneath, of the difference between that and the warmth of the tiny flames dancing at the corner of her vision, and the heat – not warmth, _heat_ \- of Miroku's lips against hers. He makes soft sounds into her mouth that Sango swallows, pausing to taste them, mind and body racing, unconsciously searching for a way to make them happen again, the happiest sounds she's heard Miroku made in a long time.

Sango is kissing back as much as she can, a sort of pleasant panic running through her veins, thick and slow. This is good and she is scared, but she is more wanting this than scared of it and she pushes back, up against Miroku in a way that leaves no doubt. She knows nothing, nothing at all, she has no experience but what she's heard from old village women and young couples in secret conversations. She trusts Miroku with her heart, and she trusts him with her body, the quiet, calming weight of his hand above her hip. She spreads her legs under him, an instinct she doesn't know where is coming from.

`Sango-´ he hisses into her neck, the letters bare and raw. He sounds like Sango is feeling, like they could be touching anywhere and it wouldn't be enough.

She can feel him between her legs, through their clothes, layers and layers but she knows what it means. He grinds into her, rolling his hips and he might be saying something, his lips are moving but Sango can hear, blood thumping in her ears. She has a vague idea that they should be taking some clothes off next – she has pictured this moment, different scenarios in her mind, she is embarrassed to say but she has been daydreaming about it, in an abstract, almost anxious way, not knowing what she would do when the moment comes. She has the feeling the moment has come.

But Miroku doesn't guide her to what's next, he stays there, panting against the curve of her shoulder and moving his hips slightly, like he is trying to stand still but can't quite manage – Sango knows what that feels like, she is writhing under him, wanting so much more.

`No,´ Miroku whispers when she bucks up against him, against the heat in his groin. It's a broken sound.

`It's okay,´ she tells him, because she guesses he needs to be told. She takes his hand from above her waist and puts it back on her breast, wanting to feel like before, the high-pitched pleasure of his fingers rubbing her nipples through her clothes. Miroku groans when she does this, takes away his hand as if burned in the fire, the same quickness, the same gesture of pain twisting the line of his mouth.

`No, Sango. We can't,´ he sits up, stretching a _safe_ distance between them but not withdrawing from her completely. `Not _now_.´

`Miroku...´

She takes his hand in hers. She is shaking a bit but the grip of her fingers in his is tight, confident. It makes him want to give her the world, and a soft, sweet moment, not a rush of blood over the grass besides a fire with the rests of a lost battle still clinging to their clothes. He wants more than this for her.

And he smiles.

`I'm not going to die,´ he tells her.

`I know.´

`No. Listen to me. I'm not going to die. I promise. We will live through this. And we'll be together.´

He gives her hand a little squeeze. Sango sits up and their eyes meet.

`I believe you,´ she says. Because she does. Because Miroku dying is out of the question, a world without him doesn't even enter her thoughts.

They have gone quiet. He still wants her. He always wants her, and the slippery feeling at the pitch of his stomach and the electricity on his skin and the welcome sting of this desire, none of that is going to stop. It goes with love. It goes with how beautiful she looks to him. It goes with being happiest, most at peace, when she is with him.

He brings her hand to his lips and kisses the palm. Sango finds this gesture makes her more uncomfortable, more restless than everything that came before, more than his deep kisses, more than the ghost of his touch over her breast, more than the hardness between his legs and against her thigh. It feels more intimate, after all, and Sango feels so much more of that kind of warmth in her throat and lungs, down her belly, that it makes each breath she draws a bit painful, makes her skin stretch until it becomes almost alien to her. Somebody else's skin. Somebody else's need to touch and be touched. Miroku's lower lip brushes against her wrist and she breathes in a shiver.

`I want to make promises to you,´ he is telling her. `I want to have things to look forward to. To have dreams to make come true when we defeat Naraku.´

His voice leaves no room for doubt, they _will_ defeat Naraku. They will survive. There's no possibility of failure here, his voice tells her. This is the way with Miroku and she often draws strength from his conviction and this is how she can give this strength back, when he falters, why she can hold him up when he is about to fall.

She nods.

He grins.

`This is torture,´ Miroku teases, running his hands through his hair, cheek just as flushed as Sango's. `You are too pretty. And I'm just a pervert monk after all. Am I not?´

He cracks a nervous chuckle that's somehow contagious and Sango finds herself laughing too, looking at his open expression and she suddenly want to kiss all his face and say the things they've taking from granted because they _know_ without having to say them.

She doesn't do this.

She lets him remove himself slowly and painfully from her touch, stepping back and sitting across her with the dying, lingering fire between them.

`That far?´ She asks, gesturing at the space between them.

`Safety distance!´ Miroku announces.

She laughs again. Miroku watches her laugh, the familiar and trusting smile back on his lips. Sango returns it.

They are staring at each other, barely smiling, waiting in comfortable silence and delicious torture when, many minutes later, Inuyasha and Kagome come back.


End file.
